Can You Tell Me the Color of Daylight?

     During an "up" I can be quite pleasant.  Even outside of one, sometimes I am still pleasant.  To keep good things going, I sometimes do good things for others.  Like donations for cancer, buying girl scout cookies, the usual.  I try not to pass up the attempt.  One thing I've started doing has been a lot of fun.  I write letters to customers who are nice.  I have always had customer service jobs.  It's a mega-crappy thing to do; and I think everyone should have had to do this, or work food service, or another similar hang-myself-now job.  When I am lucky enough to get someone who really makes my day, I send them a note (my job gives me access to their addresses).  One in particular stood out so amazingly, I gave her a hint as to my address.  I figured if she cared enough, she could find out who I was.  Well, she wrote me back, and now I have sort of forced her to be my pen-pal.  (I am a sucker for handwritten letters.)

     She came into my store yesterday!!!  She had no idea who I was (she knows the name of the author, but doesn't know the name of the cashier); but she was, again, as fantastic as ever.  Made my freakin' day.
In other news, I will be having coffee with a friend from over at http://laminatedfragments1063.blogspot.com/ who was a friend from high school.  We went our separate ways, but those different paths do kind of the same thing, like a northwestern forest as compared to a northeastern one.  It'll be so nice to have a friend again.
     Tonight, I'm pretty sure there will be drinking again.  The wife in pink velour has a red-headed friend who is having a birthday.  [back story:  DaVinci is friends with an assortment of people; I get lumped with their wives.]  I've ditched so many "girls nights out" that I am a little obligated to go to this one.  Look, I'd like to be friends with these women, I would.  I try.  Trust me, I do not have so many friends that I am willing to pass on the opportunity to have another.  Some people were made to remain acquaintances.  They are meeting at six for dinner and drinks, and I get off work at six-thirty.  By the time I get there, they will have already had their food and at least one drink each.  I will drink a lot to catch up.
     Speaking of drinking.  I did not drink last night.  I should have, I believe.  I awoke at the shining time of three-fifty.  I know it was three-fifty, because usually the dog lays on my face until I wake, and this morning I could see the clock.  I get fidgety when wide awake and stuck in bed.  DaVinci banished me to the couch, where I flipped through each channel so many times, that the number of times I looped may have actually outnumbered the number of channels we have.  I eventually went outside and played fetch with my dog.  [We have two, but one is so obviously his.]  A five a.m. squeaky toy is the best way to make friends with the neighbors.  When I eventually got around to going back inside, I bothered DaVinci until he woke up.  I'm such a good, nice wife.  He had to be at work for eight, so he was going to wake eventually.  We watched Choke (based on the book by Chuck Palahniuk).  That's a movie with a very well-crafted storyline.  It was amazing. 
     Now I am at work killing time, as usual.  We're switching my dad's old car to my name so we can be a two-car family again.  We have two unique cars, in a lame kind of way.  I have a metallic blue Chevy Tracker, and he has a black Honda Del Sol.  Each car is so small, we can fit them BOTH under our single-car carport at the same time.  Mine is named Jamie Wingo, after the gay adult male actor, because he (the Tracker) can always seem to make Journey and/or Petula Clark come on the radio.   I know, right?
This Sunday is going to be the coffee day with my friend.  He's a grad student now, as I should be.  Get off my back already, I'm applying.  He does lit, but I'm pretty sure he reads different things different ways.  DaVinci is so happy I have a friend to talk books with again.  So am I.  Hopefully, in a few months I'll be able to ditch the weekends of husbands-ignoring-their-wives-to-watch-sports-while-kids-run-around-like-a-pack-of-retarded-bonobos with the excuse of "I'm sorry, but I really have a lot of school work to do."
Wish me luck with that!

Venti Mocha, Non-Fat, Shot of Peppermint, Shot of Bailey's, No Whip

     I awoke at the crisp early time of 1:41 a.m.  I curled up in the living room with my dog and Borges until about 3, when I decided to try sleeping again.  But my other dog wanted to hang, too.  Somewhere around 5 I fell asleep again on the couch.  You know what this means?  It's another episode.

     The problem with being diagnosed with bipolar disorder and going untreated is that, well, the disorder just kind of does its own thing.  Even though I sometimes question whether I am or am not bipolar, there's no doubt that there exists in my mind some sort of mental and emotional disorder.  The biggest problem, aside from the crazy running unchecked, is that I can't seem to tell the difference between the ups and the downs.  That's not true.  When I feel and episode coming on, when I know it's about to peak, the symptoms are very similar.  It's the big outburst that defines it for me.  The sleeplessness, desire for a cigarette (has to be real bad for me to actually have one), and creative writing spurts come in the approach.  A good episode results in my house becoming spotless in the middle of the night, people getting presents from me just because, and lots of music with a horn section.  A bad episode results in crying, calling in sick just so I can drink, and the occasional act of dragging my fingernails up my arm or thigh. 
     They usually all peak the same way, too:  I have some sort of fight with Da Vinci.  It used to be whoever was nearest to me.  In high school it was mom and school officials.  In college it was roommates and friends.  Then it was the Pretender.  He really couldn't take it.  He had his own kind of issues, mostly regarding drugs and family issues to rival my own.  But during the fight I tend to run away.  I don't mean I am a coward and can't stand the fight.  I run away like a 6 year-old kid.  I take a highway and drive, just drive, until I begin to think clearly again.  I can never stop the thoughts.  They move so fast they hurt.
     I'm not very nice when I get like this.  The non-sleep is hard enough.  Since I'm awake, I might as well be miserable, right?  I remind myself how I'm 40 pounds overweight.  Shut Up!  I'm 40 pounds overweight, have no friends, am the laziest person I know, and am incapable of being on my own.
     I have some people I consider friends.  I have one who lives too far away and is too busy to be my friend.  She's also a bit of a extremist.  If I'm having a bad day, she assumes I might kill myself; if her husband got a correction from a director, she assumes he's fired and needs a new job.  The other women around me are pretty useless.  One wears hot pink velour running suits and pretends to be a housewife.  She's really only good at making kids.  Whenever one is old enough to go to school, she gets pregnant with another.  Their dog (no longer a pup) is locked away from everyone all day, and she has decided her life in incomplete without a kitten.  It goes on.
     Being 40 pounds overweight sucks.  I feel too ashamed about it to even have sex.  Which leads to me not having sex, and then thinking I'm not having sex because I'm unattractive.  At least the boobs are big.  The DaVinci is kind and comforting, but not very helpful.  He really can't be.  When I'm fat and miserable about my weight, he knows better than to say, "Do you really want to eat that, too?"  He may die for that, and he knows it.  But he's overweight also.  His dad is trying to lose weight by correcting his eating habits, not changing in exercise though.  This would work for me because I'm so lazy it's exhausting.  But I don't cook.  I know I could cook, if left to my own devices, I guess.  As a family and a person with odd social obligations, a change in diet would entail a total life makeover.  Change is the hardest thing in the world for me.
     So in the meantime, I'm fat and sad today.  All I really want is liquor.  That's all I want, liquor- and maybe my pj's, couch, and some Harold Pinter.  Shit, if my life could be that perfect.  I'd wear hot pink velour suits as a uniform if I was allowed to just do what makes me happy. 
     But today I'm pretty sure it's a bad episode.  And all I want to do is drink myself to numbness.

Since I Have Nothing Else To Do

See, the problem now is that I'm at work; my job requires the IQ of a carrot.  I don't have internet at home.  I get more than a daily dose here.  I play on pogo.com all freakin' day.  I also have a facebook account.  Alas my job blocks it.  Something about employees wasting time.  But I couldn't just let my mafia die, now could I?  The DaVinci has taken over my account.  He logs in several times a day to do everything.  Sometimes he calls to notify if so-and-so wants to be my friend.  I don't know most of the people he has agreed to.  It's okay, though.  I don't talk to most of the people I do know anyway.
A goofy side effect is that when I have to play the social wife, the other women talk about shit they sent me.  What's sad?  I can follow the score without watching the game.  They talk about their kids- I am childless, so I compare them to my dogs.  I like dogs more.  They talk about their husbands.  Since mine seems to be the only honest one in the group, I already know the story (sometimes in more detail than they).  They have no substance.  There's more to my life than TV and shopping.  Not a whole lot, but enough.
I'm not being harsh.  DaVinci and I watch very little TV.  Actually, besides sports and The Office, we don't watch anything but movies from netflix.  I lie.  I'm a sucker for the Canadian show The Weekend Guy.  But that's because I make my dogs dance to the theme song.  All I do anymore is read.  I read a lot.  I want to be a perpetual student, and study semiotics in postmodern fiction, and the absurdists.  I want to write short stories which get published shortly after my death as a compilation- only to be later recognized as non-fiction.
I'd also like to note that DaVinci and I are dirt-poor.  We both work, but to no avail.  I'm actually cancelling our health insurance so we can afford to insure a second car.  We also can't afford to see doctors when sick, because our insurance is so high.  We don't shop at Wal-Mart.  Haven't in years.  That's not expensive though.  We just don't shop.  He cooks.  He's actually a bit of a food snob.  And he cooks like one.
I'm applying to the local university.  I have a Bachelors in English, and now I want a Master's.  If I can survive that, I would like to go for a PhD.  The local school doesn't offer the program for a PhD... well, one does but it is expensive and I don't really want to stay in this city.  It haunts me.
I know I am rambling.  I'm just a little nervous.  I can't cry at work.  I cut my leg in the parking lot.  I only went out for a cigarette.  But it hurts so bad.  Cutting is bad.  And DaVinci says I can't do it anymore.  But like I said this morning, I'm fat and he's not touching me anyway.

He Brought Hawaii to My World, and Just Kept Grinning

     There's one ex who is the most astonishing.  He's honest, and not a lot of flair.  He's got rhythm, and taste.  He's got the best smile.  For years he was in my phone as The Smile or EverSmile.  EverSmile was very honest, but not mean.  Everything was so matter-of-fact with him.  He was so damn nice, too.  From Hawaii, he came into my life one night to get the mail.  I just started talking to him, because strangers can be anybody.  He turned out to be fantastic.  He mountainbikes, listens to groovy tunes, and just takes life as it comes to him.  He exists in a world of sunshine and bright colors.  Dinner with him was nice, usually sushi or Greek.  He's a man who likes flavor, likes spice, and creativity.

     I had a blast dating him.  He was more interesting that any art exhibit- well, maybe not Georgia O'Keefe- but damn close.  I had no business dating him.  He was so smart and sweet.  He was a mechanical engineering graduate, and I was a freshman.  Like most guys, I would have eventually driven him away.  Well, I did, when we broke up.  Rather than let it fester and end badly, I was lucky enough to have an out.  He was moving to Colorado [personal identity hint:  I didn't live in Colorado].  Or so I thought.  What we had was nice, but I don't know if it was love.  We hadn't been dating long enough to try a distance thing.  So I ended it.  Better be safe than have it get too serious and get hurt.  But he didn't move to Colorado.  I don't really know where he went, actually. 
     I stumbled across him later, when I was living with The Pretender.  We hung out and caught up.  After the Pretender and I broke up, I visited him a few times in a different city.  I was visiting family anyway, right?  It was nice.  He was nice.  I cannot have nice things.  I'm a little uncareful; I lose/break/deface nice things a lot.  I was just talking to him on GoogleTalk.  He's still so nice. 
     The odd thing is that he's the only guy I've ever slept with/dated who is still on good terms with me.  Maybe The Poet would be.  Can't bring myself to attempt that one, not just yet.  EverSmile will always stay in my heart as a very wonderful man.  I wish him great things and eternal sunshine. 

Reasons why I remember him so fondly:
We once watched 28 Days Later.  Before he turned it on, I actually though it was a sequel to 28 Days (with Sandra Bullock) and I thought, "kinda cheesey, but sweet."  I was so happy it was a zombie movie!
He was with me when I first heard Portuguese music, Cyro Baptista's Beat the Donkey.  I dance to it still and think of him.
He's the only person I ever met who actually had a battlebot.  He's just good like that.
That smile.

When the Elephant Lifted His Leg to Dance, We Saw His Chains

     Last night was interesting enough.  Dinner was okay- at a chain restaurant and greasy.  Pink Velour and Mommy Jubs were there, as were FishMomGrr (with sister) and HorseBerri.  Mommy Jubs is the one I get along with the best.  She has potential to learn and try new things.  I like that about her.  If I say I read a book I loved or watched an awesome movie, I can count on her to try it out.  That's cool because then the next time, she'll say "Oh, I saw that, and it reminded me of _.  You would like that, too."  She's working part-time now, so she's back in the real world instead of looking for reasons to shop at Wal-Mart and Sam's.  DaVinci and I haven't shopped at either store in years, and it's odd how proud I am of that.

     I was thinking, as I drove there and rocked out to Pat Benatar (on two radio stations!), that maybe I should commit to my writing a little more.  That's asking a lot of me.  It would mean some pretty goofy changes for me; change is not something that gets me wet.  I like to write short fiction from time to time, and poetry if the mood strikes me.  I've written about the Pretender and The Poet, but never once about DaVinci.  It would have been easier in the beginning, when we were all goofy and romantic.  But now, there's no more art to this.  That's a little devastating to think about, really.  I'm in need of art, some heat, passion, some violence, even.  I've also been listening to a lot of She Wants Revenge.  Mmmm, Monkey wants....
     To write, I'd need some time to myself.  I don't get a good dose of alone time.  Even in my own home, I don't get a lot of privacy.  DaVinci and I are sharing a car (which should end today), so he knows where I am at all times.  He also has all the log-ins and passwords for everything, since he does all the online bills and plays my mafia wars.  I'm confident the only thing he doesn't know about, and he may, is this blog.  When I write this, it's to get the crazy out of me and onto the internet where crazy belongs.  The level on anonymity I have on this, allows me to write things like, "I scratch my thighs now.  Because I scratch my arms, and you promised to help me.  And now, you check my arms for cuts, but don't help."  When I write creatively, I work in sections, and self-edit as I go.  I want to re-read and correct it before I share it with anyone.
     What's really lame is that I'm not that good.  That's said in no polite, humble way.  In fact, I write impressive literature reviews and research articles.  Comparative literature, noting little quirks in a piece, and the basics of any literature class, I am a whiz at 'em all.  When it comes to creative writing, I can only write the things that I know.  I tend to fictionalize (is that even a word?) the facts.  I take the people I know, and put them in situations I'd like to see.  Or I take strangers, and give them identity.  I am not a writer, just a player.

  

She Only Lets Me Out When the Tequila's Gone

Rum and I are not very kind to each other.  Like most nouns from my past, rum saw a few too many bad episodes and decided we couldn't be friends anymore.  I think we broke up the night The Pretender moved away.  Everyone was buying me shots, and no one was tracking what I drank, much less me.  It was a combination of mixing things that should never be mixed and drinking too many individual things.  Highlights include:  toasting to verbs for being so helpful (and dissing adjectives for complicating things), throwing up in the booth, falling twice (that's two times) in the parking lot, and confusing my DD's foot for his car.  The party moved to his place for my shower, and everyone else continued drinking.  I awoke a few hours later asking for soup, but still drunk.


Saturday night I had one drink with a single shot of rum.  I woke up a little nauseous, but otherwise fine.

Tequila and I are best friends.  When my puppy died, my roommate tried to help by taking away any drug that I could overdose on (my cough syrup, mood stabilizers, anit-depressants, painkillers, etc.).  He said "I know you have a bad history of not handling things well, so I'm taking these.  But you can have this."  He handed me my bottle of Cuervo, sat on the porch and smoked alongside me.  He helped me to bed a few hours later, and I woke up still cradling the empty bottle.  Tequila will always be there for me.

Since I have been involved in a downward spiral recently, all I wanted last night was to sleep.  I average two to three hours a night when my moods start shifting to a peak or trough.  I have a bottle of Sauza (not fantastic, but silver nonetheless) but no mixers.  Because I consider myself to be super-classy, I usually mix with juice (orange is preferred, but any will do) or Sunny-D.  I had absolutely nothing to utilize.  I put it over ice in a coffee mug and started playing Mario Kart.  Halfway through the 12-race marathon to see who will be crowned king- me or DaVinci- I threw in frozen peaches.  BEST IDEA EVER!  My bubble bath later was a difficut task, but fun as well.

I got five hours of sleep.  It was fantastic.  I woke up this morning feeling... something.  I'm better, but not well.  I broke down and bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday.  We can't all be winners.

What a Smile Can Say

If you really want to know what a sane conversation between exes sounds like, this is how it goes.  I did edit names and places.  This is the sanest person I have ever met.

3xE: hah! you do exist!
EverSmile: hello married lady.
3xE: hello
EverSmile: i heard that you got married.
3xE: yeah. you'd be proud. he accepts the crazy and everything
EverSmile: oh.
that's great!
but kind of sad for me
i guess i already had my chance
3xE: nah, you wouldn't want me now. you know i got diagnosed as bipolar?
it's no surprise, but sucks all the same.
EverSmile: oh
i knew all along
it's okay, most women have bipolarness
3xE: well, i would like to apologize for being a nutcase. i should have been nicer to you.
EverSmile: thank you. i liked you anyway, and still do.
3xE: aww, that's sweet. i still think fondly of you
EverSmile: you thought fondly of me in the beginning?
3xE: i thought of you the other day. a friend was talking about battlebots
always have
EverSmile: hahahah
battlebots...
my old love
hey, remember that picture of you with a black eye?
3xE: yeah
EverSmile: i still have it, i saw it when i moved about a month ago
it's pretty cool
3xE: i was wondering what happened with that
i thought i threw it away. i threw away an entire box of photos one night.
EverSmile: awwww =
=(
3xE: it happens
it was a bad time when i did it, and i wanted to start over.
so. how are you? besides 2 frugal?
EverSmile: hahaha
well, i'm in shanghai right now
on a little business trip
3xE: what!?!
EverSmile: yeah i work for a microchip design house in [city]
and our factories are all in asia
i have a girlfriend back in [city], who is really pretty cool
actually some things about her remind me of you quite a bit
3xE: that's great.
she crazy too?
my sis lives in [still came city]
EverSmile: small waist, nice butt
hazel eyes, brown hair
5'6"
i feel like maybe your laugh is the same, but i don't really remember yours enough to say
it's kind of weird, now that i think about it
you are similar to her
3xE: heh
EverSmile: what are you doing these days:?
[insert former workplace]?
3xE: I work for my mom outside of [insert another city], back home. a car dealership. but i am applyign to grad school. hopefully to start in the fall
EverSmile: majoring in?
3xE: literature. i'd like to work on modern fiction
EverSmile: oh
that sounds cool
3xE: not to be a writer, but a teacher
EverSmile: you always said that you wanted to teach
3xE: it's the only way to stay in school after graduation
what's shanghai like?
EverSmile: whoops
hellooooo?
3xE: ama t work,, gimme a sec
EverSmile: ok
3xE: ok, back
EverSmile: hi
3xE: i work for my mom, and she just got back from [city]. my sis lives there and just had a baby
EverSmile: oh
mb me and your sister should be friends
3xE: hehehe
maybe. she lives in [close city]
EverSmile: yeah that's close by
do you ever visit her? we could all go get lunch! yay!
3xE: hehehehe
i'm supposed to go in january. my birthday is then, and i'm getting the baby a shirt that says "baby's 1st Aunt 3xE's birthday"
EverSmile: hahahaha
that's funny
3xE: so, life....
EverSmile: life?
3xE: how's yours? mine is okay.
you live in [city], currently in shanghai, have a girl who sounds just fantastic if she's like me, and....
EverSmile: i would like a poodle.
that will complete my life.
3xE: standard, i hope?
EverSmile: toy.
3xE: too small for you. you need a dog who can keep up with you.
you do things. you ahve hobbies and interests.
and i type poorly
EverSmile: oh, right
i mountain bike
i'm starting a little company
that's about it
3xE: i blog anonymously. and stalk ex-boyfriends
don't really ahvea hobby
EverSmile: oh, your xanga?
i read it all the time.
3xE: I have a xanga?
EverSmile: oh
i was just guessing about your blog
hey do you really stalk me? that's very flattering.
3xE: not really. sorry
EverSmile: oh
you could have lied there to make me feel good
3xE: well, i am a friend on facebook.
and i check, but you don't update much
EverSmile: yeah they don't fucking have facebook in china
it's blocked
3xE: they block it here at work, too. and i do not have internet at home
EverSmile: oh
=(
then how do you fb?
3xE: i go to DaVinci's work in the morning and abuse their free wireless
EverSmile: hahahaha
3xE: then go to work. he's always on my account playing mafia wars
EverSmile: that's funny!
3xE: why i blog anonymously. i get no privacy.
it's not all bad, my mafia is awesome
EverSmile: hehehehe
3xE: yeah, my work has blocked facebook and myspace and twitter. add that to not having cable or internet at home, and i live like a modern caveman
but i have a super awesome gay car!
EverSmile: cave WOMAN
3xE: nah, i don't get beat in the head
EverSmile: the next time i see you, you will
3xE: hehehehe
you have always had a thing about me and violence. first the black eye and now clubbing. was it something i said?
EverSmile: hahaha
no
actually i'm not violent at all
though i do seem to be attracted to violent girls

I'm Almost Certain that Dennis Was the Favorite

Pat the Grad once asked me if there was any history of abuse in my family.
"Like drugs or like Lifetime?"  *snicker*  "Well, either."
Yes.  Yes there was abuse in my family.  On both sides.  All kinds, even kinds that are combinations.  I've got so many relatives, blood and marriage, that it'd be hard to catalogue them all.  Mind you, I'll still try.  I won't dwell on the sad ones, just the really messed up ones.  Abuse, addiction, cruelty, confusion, and a general discomfort permeates through my past.  I'm going to go by family member, but they cross-link, so be careful.
Dad, The Tramp
He's a tramp, like the dog with the meatballs and like Vladimir and Estragon.  He abuses love.  [I get this from him.]  He falls in love too easily.  It's not that he falls out of love with them, either.  He puts his whole heart into each relationship; every woman is his queen.  In the end, though

Dear Diary: My First Post

     So, it's Monday, and I'm going to attempt blogging.  This isn't really for anyone.  If you want to read this, that's cool.  My goal is to remain as anonymous as the internet allows.  Anyone who can figure out who I am, well, "Way to go on your part."  I'm doing this so I can make an honest attempt at cataloging my emotions and tracking what goes on in my mostly unrealistic brain.

     You see, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 21. 

     Hmm.  Well, maybe I should have started with high school.  In high school I had emotional moodswings that would have rivaled any menopausal spree killer.  Unfortunately for me, my sister had "gone crazy" years before which led doctors and family to think she was just "acting out."  But she was a teen who said something in a heated emotional state and who had to suffer for it.  After that, anything I did seemed like I, too, was acting out.  Like any pissy 16 year-old, yeah, I said things I didn't mean.  I had bad days and good days.  I was too smart to be in the situations I was in at school.  I was taken to a psychiatrist who, on the first meeting and with no tests done, recommended anti-epileptic drugs.  No thanks.  They would have lowered my IQ and dropped my GPA (my senior year, eek!).  Besides, there was the whole "possibly a misdiagnosis" thing.  In the end I saw a cheap form of a therapist (grad students are the best!) and got put on birth control "to help with the hormonal part of it."

     So, at 21, after a terrible and drawn-out break-up, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  Grad students and their valiant leaders can be so kind.  Student health at my school recommended meds, and I took them.  Then, my grad student therapist graduated.  And I stopped taking the meds.  And when I asked for something I couldn't taste in my blood (which limited my mind like an emotional floodgate) I was told, "I prescribe this for all the students with this problem."  Oh.  Well, then.

     I have since gone back and forth with wanting help.  I never get it.  I try my best to not freak out.  I am married now, and he helps A LOT.  He bears the brunt of my out of the blue rants and anger.  I love him, and if he ever decides I'm too crazy to deal with, he's probably right.

     That's what this blog is going to be for me.  I can't keep a notebook around me.  People read that.  Sure, people might read this.  Who?  Well, alright, no one.  But no one will see it and knows it's me.  That notebook I used to carry around?  My mom found one (boy, was that a bad two months!).  Another got lost in the Honors Lounge at college.  When I went back to look for it, some kids were reading it aloud mocking it.  Thankfully, it was new, and had no names it it.  I felt like Harriet the Spy.  Yeah.  I went there.  I had to pretend it wasn't mine and that I was there looking for someone (who graduated two years before).

     Alright, well, I'm at work.  And not supposed to even be on the internet.  I think this'll work as a little journal I can dip into and out of.  I'll try to update it regularly, if only to track the ups and downs to see if there's an identifiable pattern.

I Only Eat Ponchatoula Strawberries Now

     Like many out there, I read PostSecret.  There's only one I have saved on my computer.  It says "Will trade sex for affection."  Unlike so many others I have found, this one has defined me.  I am not this girl anymore.  I work really hard at not being that person.  I am married to a man who has helped me greatly.  It seemed like a questionable marriage at first; it was so sudden and we are so different.  He lets me be me without letting me do the things I do.
     I ran into a former lover recently.  Actually, I knew he worked in the area I was in, and I kept an eye out for him.  When he walked by me, it was quick and he didn't notice.  Why would he expect me?  I lived two hours away when...  He didn't have time to talk, and with me would want no reason.  Whatever I have written since, he has always been "The Poet."  He will always be The Poet in the unfortunately long list of men.  I remember him fondly because I should have loved him.  And maybe I did.
     The Poet is a writer, and artist. He is lean and light-skinned. His black hair is so curly it wraps itself in your fingers and pleads with you to tug it in ecstasy. Nothing comes more naturally to his eyes than a smile, or a kiss to his lips. He moves like a dancer in the shape of a man.
     I attribute my favorite memory to him alone.  It was like fiction, it was so good.  We hadn't seen each other in a while and were meeting for coffee.  That's all it was supposed to be.  It turned to dinner, and a tour of the city, then to sleeping together, and an entire weekend misty with pure bliss.  It was more than that.  It was leather and denim, cotton sheets, and dew-filled mornings.  It was a golden hour that rivaled any filmmaker's perfect day:  the grass so green it bled into the air and the sky so blue it melted the sun.  It was a motorcycle and medium roast.  It was off the interstate.  It was a chilly evening and tousled hair.  It was slowdancing to Norah Jones, pasta, and the warm scent of naked flesh.  It was touching someone and feeling more than human.  The Poet introduced me to his family.  We ate dinner with them.  And when the slow jazz played alone in his living room, each languid note counted out the moments in history that would be with me forever and shape what I expected out of love. 
     At 19, he was as much man as I woman.
     That was the problem.  Love like that isn't for real people, not for hearts as young as ours.  Artists' souls need to be broken before they can find each other the way we did.  One night, not long after that weekend, he came to my city.  Our last moments together was him asking me to return with him.  He asked more than once.  And I kept refusing.  It was agony.  I should have gone.  Oh, how different my life could have turned out.  The rational side of me stayed sober and firm.  My more mercurian side ripped itself to shreds and almost ran away on its own to be with him.  It wanted the drama, lust, living in near-sqaulor just for the sake of being happy with him.  But I had to stay in class, had to keep my crappy job and crappy apartment, had to stay on track. 
     I don't adapt well to change.  I depend on consistency like a drug.  It is currently the only drug I have, my only sanctity, only hope for life.  To throw my life into upheaval for the possibility of a few months of true happiness would have been dangerous for both me and him.  That's all it would have been.  I would have broken, like I later did with someone else.  And he wouldn't have been able to handle it, like that someone else wasn't. 
     Right now, my life is not how I expected it to turn out; but I am happy.  I could be happier (if I had the funds), but that is true for many.  I regret not loving him more, but I know now, that it was the right thing.  I am irrational and seem to survive only on blind luck.  I admit that I am lucky in having had that weekend with him.  How many of you out there can say you've had the pleasure of experiencing an earth-moving experience?  How many of you could write factual fiction about a time in your life that stands out like a perfectly made piece of art?  How many of you have even had the opportunity to love someone so beautifully?
     If I had one thing to give The Poet, it would be Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude (because his Love in the Time of Cholera is too straight-forward, and would break my heart to know it couldn't really happen).  The woman I wish I was taught me that Emma Bovary had to die, as punishment for being a poor reader.  Like Don Quixote, she could not discern the world she read from the world in which she lived.  I come dangerously close myself, and far too often.  That weekend with him almost had me convinced that fiction wasn't just a deliriously enticing optical illusion.  In my life I have had one mentor, two failed suicide attempts, three loves (The Poet, The Pretender, and The Da Vinci), and millions of pages.  I want The Poet to know that in Fiction, I will always regard us as Constance and Mellors, and in Reality I am sadly more like Carol Kennicott (that itself is perhaps a reason for future attempt number three).  If the world works, and I truly am saved by blind luck, then he should read Marquez and remember that time turns in a circle and all things happen when due.  I am not implying that I will ever give up what I have with my husband, nor asking that The Poet should wait for me.  In the future, though, should the question come up again, I would gladly run away with him.  But for now, we finally haunt the same city at night; and it is painful to be so near without that closeness.

She Used to Believe Music Was More Real than Fiction

     My facebook occasionally tells me "reconnect with so-and-so: write on his wall."  Usually I think to myself, "Oh, well, I don't talk to him, I'll just delete him instead.  And I don't mind.  How many have deleted me?  It's about even either way.  I read an article today about a man trying to delete 101 of his 400 friends, and it was difficult to associate with 70 of those 83 he did delete. 
     Recently, The Pretender came up.  "Make Facebook better for him; send him a message."  Granted we had a VERY ugly break-up, and a semi-ugly relationship.  But as friends we were, well, we should never have been friends.  Our lives are not really intertwined anymore, and our mutual friends have all moved on as we have.  But I sent him a message.  Because I do not have friends to spare.  Besides, I loved him once, and do still feel a concern for his general well-being.  Although it's no excuse, his life was warped long before he realized it, and he was never able fix it- and the drug use only maimed any hope of recuperation.  And everyone agrees we were both too crazy to be safe for each other.
     I told him facebook wanted me to check on him, "I'm good, and hope you are as well.  StressExcess tells me your are doing well.  Keep it up."  His response was along the lines of his confliction with talking to me and that he's okay.  I wrote back, explaining that all confliction aside, I have realized that while we may never be friends again, we will always share some concern for the other, and that's okay. 
     I hope he does better in his life.  I hope he gets happy again.  I hope he has let go, too.  Finally, I can be free from emotional responsibility or obligation.  At least this once.

Defiance, Caramel and Taking Her Down a Peg or Two

     Let's just say I was right.  Let's also say that the only thing I am an authority on is myself.  Let's also say that, remember when I said I'm a terrible friend?  I was soooooo right.  And I'm still not sorry.
     My sister, who's personal motto is "There's a pill for everything," called me last night complaining about her husband.  He's an amazing, fantastic, sweet, smart, funny pediatrician.  They just had a baby together.  This is his first, but not hers.  She's a control freak and has fucked up her older kid.  He's a lying, stealing, mean little bastard.  I love him, but I'd kick his ass if my sister would turn her back for an instant.  She is staying at home with the baby until she returns to work.... as a NICU nurse.  Her new kid, as much as I love her, wails like a car alarm.  Husband's first response?  Offer her a bottle.  Granted, he's new at this.  But my bitch of a sister honestly told her husband (who is a short overweight guy), "I know you depend on food to always make you feel better, but let's not make our daughter obese."  She and he have this fight all the time, and she called me last night to complain about him, once AGAIN.  I didn't take her side, because you can't say things like that.  She had stormed out of the house, hoping the baby refuses the bottle to make him feel bad about it.  So, I texted him that I'm sorry my sister is such a control freak, and that if he needs a man to talk to, who is "used to dealing with the crazy bitches" that he should call DaVinci.  He apparently had no idea she was mad at him AGAIN.  She called me all angry because she "would never call my husband when I have called her with a problem."
     First of all, I'm the fucking queen of talking things out once I have calmed down.  Therapy has given me that much.  Second, DaVinci always knows when I'm mad at him and why, and he understands that it's mostly not "me" and when it is, we work it out.  Third, she's a cruel bitch who is always telling her husband mean things just to hurt him.  And since she can't communicate with him, I will.  Yes, I know, I'm getting involved in something that I have no business in.  But if it's not my business, don't call me.  Also, he deserves to be treated like an adult and talked to as such.  I hope he leaves her.  I want him in the divorce; he's a keeper.  Not to brag or anything, but someone needs to reign that bitch in sometimes and tell her to calm the fuck down.  She's coming in for Christmas, and I'm supposed to visit her in January for my birthday.  This may be the end to a very rough sisterhood.
     On a lighter note, she once stole a computer from my room, and I beat her door in with a baseball bat.  I'm violent, but she's actually meaner than I am.  My mom giggles when we fight, because she says it's like watching a retarded bear fight a bee with no stinger.

The Pompitous of Making Up Words

     Also spelled pompatus.  Though, I guess if it's not really a word, then it doesn't matter how I spell it.
     I once made up a word.  It's a verb: remagine.  It's conjugated the same way as "imagine."  It basically is the verb to describe the action of experiencing deja vu.  Because saying "I experienced deja vu just now when you said that"  or "I had a deja vu experience today, when you picked up your keys and that song came on," is a little wordy.  "Whoa, I totally just remagined that whole conversation."  See, sounds much better.  The main word and it's prefix fit really well; and together they pretty much mean the act of experiencing deja vu.  Pretty good, eh?
     Work is boring today.  It was "end of month" yesterday, so all of my accounting is done, and everything is filed away.  I play pogo.com games all day long when I am this bored.  I haven't been in a mood to read, and that kinda sucks.  I still try to read in bed.  The past few nights I have been exhausted, though.  Thankfully, the library loves me and lets me keep checking out books and renewing them.
     Monday Night Football struck my family last night.  If the Thursday and/or Monday game is good enough, we *have* to watch it.  I am normally a football widow, mostly weekends. In fact, DaVinci is a sports nut.  So, really, any sport makes me a widow.  "We" officially cheer for the following teams:
Liverpool Reds for Premiership Football
Oakland Raiders for NFL
Oakland A's for MLB (no, I do not live in Oakland, why do you ask?)
Michigan (go Wolverines!) for NCAAF

We unofficially cheer for the following:
Duke for NCAAB (bro-in-law is huge fan)
Nebraska for NCAAF (bro-in-law is huge fan)
Anyone who isn't Ohio State or USC in NCAAF
Fuck anything that's considered Texas, for any sport
Hornets in NBA, but I have a thing for Sean Marks
Ice Pilots for ECHL, but I'm not sure they are even a team anymore
Celtics for NBA (bro-in-law again)
Redskins for NFL, Moneyballs is a massively dangerous fan, too bad they suck!
Saints for NFL, seems to be the current trend
Arsenal for Premiership (though I'm all Italian and Brazilian for World Cup, etc.)

     I'd like to see the Colts and the Saints both go undefeated this season, just so that they can both go to the Superbowl.  Either way, one will win, and one will lose.  It would mean that the '72 Dolphins will finally shut the fuck up about going undefeated for an entire season.  Besides the Patriots may not have gone an entire season undefeated (losing to the Giants in the '07 season Superbowl), but they still won more games total.  I <3 dreamy Tom Brady.
     That's all I have in sports for now.  I hope it stays that way. 


   

Her Reaction to that Song is Nudity

     Went out for DaVinci's birthday Saturday night.  I remember three drinks.  Apparently DaVinci bought me two, MomFace bought me one, and RockSalt bought me three.  That's six.  That's six that other drunk people can remember... so, who knows?
     I remember some key moments:

MoneyBalls telling everyone how much he makes, and being more than impressed.  I admire him, but in no way do I envy him.
RockSalt telling me he's gonna try and hit on DaVinci's new friend (she's still young, but dating someone).
Unbuttoning my shirt to She Wants Revenge, and telling DaVinci "It's on now, mothafucka!"
Trying to teach the new one about The Pogues.
The Krewe of Snuggies on parade, and coming into the bar to annoy us.
The random bunch of people in footie p.j.'s, not with the Snuggies, and my drunk ass asking them if they were here to battle the Snuggies.
My phone falling apart on the ride home.
DaVinci explaning to me that RockSalt inappropriately touches everyone's wives, but it's expected.  Eww.
RockSalt asking if my boobs got bigger.  Yes, but only because I've gained weight.
MoneyBalls pointing out the CrabMan from My Name is Earl sitting behind him.
BritPunk slipping me cigarettes under the table, and me trying to be discreet about lighting one- in a dark bar it kinda shows- and then not hiding the fact that I was smoking, just lighting up.
I do not remember dancing.  I do not remember texting my dad, although it's very common for me to drunk-text my dad.  I do not remember going to bed.  I do not remember saying "The door's over there?  But it's so far."  I do not remember much.
But I do regret waking up yesterday.  Gin and Seven, at least it wasn't rum.  I know I can go back to it, but, man, it made me so ill.  I was shaking in the bathtub and could not make it to the toilet.  MomFace was no better off.  She was drinking whiskey, and she hates whiskey.  It must hate her, too.  Fortunately, this is not something we do often.  Unfortunately, we all had such a good time, we all stated we would like to do it more often.
  Really, it was awesome.  But I'm going to go on a four-drink-minimum.

Nicknames

DaVinci = Neil
MoneyBalls = Richie
MomFace = Tiffany
Pink Velour = Tessa
RockSalt = Berto
MommyJubs = Heather
The Pretender = David
The Poet = Brent
HorseBerri = Jenni
BritPunk = Shawn
HouseMarm = Adie
EverSmile = Jeremy
Punch Drunk = Chris
StressExcess = Nicole
FishMomGrr = Angie

Could Have Been a Tribute to Daft Punk

     I am working on a few other posts, mostly things that take a little longer to write out clearly.  Also, well, like I said when I began this, I have trouble keeping my writing going.  Especially since I am doing this at work, I find it a little hard to maintain.  DaVinci and I were planning on getting internet at the house.  Now that we aren't paying for health insurance, we can afford a few smaller luxuries (like buying fish instead of icky beef).  Unfortunately, the recession that's supposed to be over is hitting my industry, and I may not have a job much longer.  So, no extra bills (internet) until I find out if I'll even have a job by January. 

     In honor of my favorite blogger, Aunt Becky, I'm going to do this one in a few short and sweet bursts:

     DaVinci had his birthday this week.  He's a whopping 35 now.  We had sushi and it was delicious.  We are going out for drinks tomorrow night with friends.  I look forward to that.  It's going to be at the Rendezvous, which is DaVinci's favorite bar (and becoming my favorite).  I've already set up a deal with a cop friend of mine to give us a ride home after we are too drunk.  Lights and everything!  We rock!
     I have a fun relationship with my mom.  We are pretty open about everything (except the part about me cutting and things like that).  She and I have always been close.  I guess it's because, well, we are always around each other.  She bought the house DaVinci and I live in.  We were moving back home, and asked her to look around for rental properties.  She and my step-dad bought a house for us, and we pay the note/rent.  We have the option to keep it and stay, or she can rent it out if we decide to move away.  I also work for her.  That's right.  My mother is my landlord and my boss.  So, secrets about who's buying our company are flying around, and she's not keeping any from me.  It makes me nervous.  You see, where I work, it's technically three companies.  The big one, the moneymaker and favorite, is being sold.  Another might actually be for sale as well.  And we here have a lot of questions about who goes with which company.  Or who will be let go if the buyer fills positions with his own people.  I am paid by one, my mother is paid by another, and yet the girl I work alongside is paid by the third.  My mother is the golden child, go-to person, the alpha-omega of getting shit done at this place, and she does it for our three, as well as helps out three of the four others that are not in our building.  But she's an employee of the one definitely being sold.  I hope she stays.  I won't have a job if they let her go.
     I was late to work today because a cop stopped me for threatening to hit a pedestrian with my car.  The pedestrian was walking, and stopped- STOPPED!- in front of me just to be a jackass and interrupt my day.  I know this, because where I live, people do that all the time.  And I know I'm being racist, but it's what the black community does here.  [When your community totals more than 30% of a population, which the black community is here, you are no longer a minority.]  I struggle with racism here, because, A) I find whites in our area to be victims of it, but in our society only blacks are victims of racism anymore- and maybe Hispanics;  B) this area as a whole has given me no reason to appreciate the prison culture it has established;  C) I find myself becoming a bigot, and I am appalled by it myself.  DaVinci tries to make me remember that it's not black people whom I dislike.  It's the "prison culture" and attitude of our surroundings.  That's true.  I hate assholes regardless of color.  I hate ignorance and cruelty regardless of skin tone.  I hate people who buy brand names or decorate their cars like NASCAR racers just to be associated with a brand (I also hate NASCAR, politicians, and beauty queens).  Ignorance is rampant here, and it's not because people are a certain ethnicity.  But I still feel bad because I find myself judging people on that basis.  In all honesty though, I only feel bad when I'm wrong about a person, but feel justified when I am oh-so-often correct.  If you don't want to be treated like a stereotype, stop enforcing it.
     That's about all I really have for now.  Like I said, I lack the proper discipline to really be a blogger.

Talking to Her Was Like Dancing with a Lame Koala

     My favorite therapist/counselor was Pat.  Pat was a grad student, and was the best thing that ever happened to me.  Why did Pat rock so hard?  What made Pat stand out?
1)  Never called me a liar.
2)  Never locked the door.
3)  Never told me that my problems were my problems and that I had to live with that.
4)  Never offered to sleep with me.
5)  Asked me if I needed to move to a "safe house."
6)  Brought snacks for my dog, and let me bring her to sessions.
7)  Understood that when I describe something, I rely heavily on analogy, because it's easier for others.
8)  Not once recommended drugs.
9)  Offered to run with me at the gym.
10)  LISTENED more than he spoke.
11)  Let me see what he wrote in his notebook about me.
12)  Let me smoke in his office.
13)  Never assigned me worksheets to do at home.
14)  Set goals for me to get through the day.
15)  Spent my entire first session with me in the pillow room and didn't once ask what was wrong.
16)  Believed me when I promised I'd never attempt it again.
17)  Told me it wouldn't go away, but could get better.
18)  Congratulated me with a soda on three days sober.
19)  Recommended me to a non-student for real help when he graduated.
20)  Finally helped me.
I try to revel in the fact that I had a Pat.  Becasuse to remember what I had without a Pat is just really, really heartbreaking. 
Yesterday, I was thankful that I once had a Pat.

Sometimes We All Listen to the Rolling Stones

1) Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?
As a matter of fact, I do.  I prefer them with a simple flavor, such as peach or pistachio.
And to answer a question that was once addressed by Aunt Becky, "jimmies" seem to be the longer ones, while "sprinkles" are the smaller dots, and I like both.

2) If you had to choose one word to banish from the English language, what would it be and why?
I am not a fan of "undesirable."  No one should ever be made to feel that way.  Everyone has some trait or quirk that is off-putting (and most can be ignored), but no one should be regarded as undesirable.  The fact that it is even a word is a little disheartening.

3) If you were a flavor, what would it be?
Crazy's not a flavor?  Perhaps then Candy Cane Stracciatella.  It's my favorite flavor of gelato made here.  Actually, everything made by Carmelo is fantastic, and I would be any one of them.  MMMMMMMM.

4) What’s the most pointless annoying chore you can think of that you do on a daily/weekly basis?
Folding clothes.  If it cannot be wrinkled, then it should be on a hanger.  And if it can be wrinkled, why do I bother folding it?  I have been known to fly off the handle while folding clothes.  It's the only chore that has made me cry on a regular basis.

5) Of all the nicknames I’ve ever had in my life, Aunt Becky is the most widely known and probably my favorite. What’s your favorite nickname? (for yourself)
Heh, I have several.  I love "Monkey" because DaVinci gave it to me, and calls me that all the time.

6) You're stuck on a desert island with the collective works of 5 (and only five) musical artists for the rest of your life. Who are they?
The Rolling Stones, The Postal Service, Bob Dylan, Reel Big Fish, and Leonard Cohen.  Easy.

7) Everything is better with bacon. True or false?
I vote true.  I once had bacon flavored gelato, and it was just so delicious.

8 ) If I could go back in time and tell Young Aunt Becky one thing, it would be that out of chaos, order will emerge. Also: tutus go with everything. What would you tell young self?
Sex is not the same thing as affection.  Leash your dog.

Our Prayers Go Out to Jesse

     My sister and I spent yesterday reminiscing the funeral of a grandfather.  He was my mom's step-dad.  He was my mom's step-dad that was abusive and mean; and my grandmother left him nearly ten years before he died.  He shot himself.  In the stomach.  My mom had been bringing him daily meals because he couldn't take care of himself.  She told him she had to go out of town and that her husband would be bringing him his dinner.  She ended up not going, and finding him herself that night- she had  brought him brownies and roast beef.  What happened to my mom was the only sad part about it.  I cried because he had no right to do that to her, after all she had done for him- out of the goodness of her heart, and for the total lack of goodness in his.
     My sister and I are going to Hell, not for the mean things we said about Dave, but because of the funeral.
     She had gotten married less than month before, and I was just graduating college.  People kept walking up to us and telling us how happy and proud they were.  Then they immediately went back to tears.  We couldn't tell which emotion they were faking.  Our assignment was more of less to keep my mom in check.  She'd always been the rock of my family, and we always keep her sane.

There's Grey, Black, White, and Black and White

     While sitting around with Pink Velour and Co., one of the wives asked me, "So, you've been drinking a lot lately.  What gives?"  "It's nothing, really.  Just a bad week."  FishMomGrr doesn't like that answer.  She also isn't around enough to really know me.  She doesn't know that sometimes I don't hang out with them because I spent the entire day drinking, or lying on my couch crying.  She doesn't know that sometimes I go over with DaVinci to watch the game with everyone, but end up playing with my dogs behind the house anyway, because I cannot be cooped up in that house with all of them, and I really need some sunshine and fresh air and to get all this energy out of me.  Actually, only DaVinci really gets it, and only because he's been around for so long, and he lives with it.  People who don't live with it, like myself or like DaVinci, don't understand bipolar disorder.  Nor do they understand that it gets people differently.  Even people who know someone who is bipolar, which I hear a lot, say to me, "Oh, well, that's not how so-and-so is."
     REALLY?  Because I thought all of us crazy people were the same.  I hear, "Well, my mother-in-law is bipolar, and she's really bad off.  She can't even handle a job."  I hear, "When my cousin got diagnosed she had to spend a weekend under observation.  Have you ever been locked up?"
     I have a job.  I have a job because my mom is my boss and she knows.  She doesn't get it, but she has an idea.  She knows there are days when I can't sit upright because I've cried myself into dry heaves.  She knows I wear long sleeves even in summer because I claw my arms up trying to hurt the pain.  But she doesn't understand how I feel.  I have a marriage because I have a husband who tells me that as long as I'm not crying, I can go ahead and drive for a few hours, so long as I promise to come back.  He tells me it's okay to not go into work today because I might try to drive off a bridge on my way in.  He wrestles me; and has taken me and my dogs for a walk in the middle of the night because I was too "up" to sleep.
     Once I told someone that I had been diagnosed as bipolar, and her response was, "Do you sometimes feel invincible?  Do you have a regular cycle of feelings of hopelessness countered with despair?"  She was asking me textbook questions over dinner about how I feel.  Well, no, I don't feel invincible.  I'm unstoppable, though.  I'm amazing and I kick ass.  I do everything right, and when I do something wrong, it's hysterical.  And during a low point, I vomit at the thought of making a decision.  I have run away in my pajamas in the rain during the night when I lived in the 'hood because DaVinci didn't understand what I was trying to say, and he wouldn't say the right thing back.
     My sister, the nurse who has known me my whole life who was also once institutionalized for six weeks, doesn't get it either.  A week went by and we didn't speak, so she called to check if I was okay.  I was hysterical because it was the middle of the day, and there were over 200 channels with nothing on, and my socks didn't match, and for some reason I kept getting mail for someone who doesn't live in my house, and all my clothes needed to be folded, and DaVinci was having dinner with a friend from back home and didn't even ask if I wanted to go.  She asked why I wasn't at work.  "Because I'll drink bleach before I go back to that hellhole."  Granted, my job sucked some major balls- enough to call the IRS after I quit- but know I was also a little dramatic.  I even looked up how much bleach I'd have to drink to get sick but not die.  It wasn't all that much, and I almost did it.  She said, "3xE, everyone has bad days."  A bad day is a stubbed toe, or a forgotten bank account password.  A bad day is not let's see how many red lights I can drive through without an accident.
     Of all the problems I list when I'm feeling out of it, none of them are actually the problem.  I know that.  DaVinci knows that.  It's taken him a few years, but he's learned that much.  He has sworn to try to keep things as consistent as possible for me.  He tries to do the same things every week (on this day, we visit friends, on this day we eat out, on this day we bathe dogs, etc).  I've gotten to where I can kind of feel an episode coming on.  I give him a bit of a notice, and he doesn't mind if I cry.  He still gets very frustrated, but he so rarely gets mad at me anymore.  Depending on how I feel, he'll leave me at home to go hang with the group solo, or he'll grab some couch and watch Harold and Maude with me, again.   
     So, as of now, I have decided to stop mentioning the craziness to people.  I'll lie, like I have before.  Food poisoning, death in the family, stray dog bite, the flu.  I've lied to bosses who think people can work when they're "sad."  I've lied to professors who don't understand that cutting myself is not, in fact, a cry for help.  When a friend asks why I hadn't been around, I must have been ill.  If I've been drinking, it's because my mom needs a drinking buddy after she's fired someone, every day for a week.  Uncrazies don't speak the language.

Take Twenty, aka Whoopsie!

New Friends are Just Old Friends, but Young Like Me

A girl came back into my life recently.  She's the only woman I'd marry, but we'd kill each other.  She was my best friend in high school.  I tried to kill myself in college and we couldn't be friends anymore.  I never told her about it.  I didn't blame her for it.  I mean, I blamed myself, but she was the reason.  I could never be as good as her, I never was.  That sucks, and more so when your friends always talk about how great she is, and your mom says things like, "This is my other daughter," and "This is going to be my successful daughter."
But we got back in touch by the miracles of facebook and we're good friends again.  She's the closest friend I have now.  And I do love her.  She's got a boy.  And I worry about her attachment to him.  If she loves him, then I support it.  If he breaks her heart, she will survive and might even be a better person because of it.
We hung out through the holidays when she was in town.  She's a super-over-achiever and is in law school.  There's something about her and her boy trying to open a bar in Brooklyn in there as well.  She lives in Cleveland, but will be moving soon. We text and e-mail occasionally.  It's nice to have someone who gets me.

My trip to the Bahamas got cancelled.  I'm super-bummed about that.  I was excited about making new friends with strangers from the internet.  And I don't think I'm in the book club anymore.  One meeting, and I was out, I guess.  I'm not made to be a great friend, I guess.

Same day I found out about my cancelled trip, I found out about what kind of friends I already had, too.  The Jobless Wives ditched me for breakfast twice in a row.  They forgot we had plans.  So I deleted them from facebook.  Facebook isn't real.  It exists, but it's not real life.  I'm friends with people on facebook that I'm not in real life.  It's just polite.  But also, if it was such a big deal to them.... why did it take 11 days for them to figure it out?  And why was it so important that we be friends?  They are my husband's friends' wives.  We didn't have a whole lot in common.  We had dissimilar tastes, interests, and hobbies.  We were in different places in our lives, different lifestyles.  But the sin of casting them out of the holy facebook friends list was too much for them, and we don't talk now.  I think I'll live.  DaVinci refuses to get in the middle, which is awesome because he wouldn't answer questions like "What did we do wrong?"  Also, it means I don't have to watch football.  I win so few battles, some friendships are just casualties of war.

In other news, I cry for no reason now.  It's that time of year again when the depression rears its ugly head.  While I feel depressed, I find that pretending to be happy helps.  I have to smile and be nice at work.  I don't want to make other people upset or worried, you know.  So, I just go with pretending to be happy.  I actually find this working.  I mean, I catch a few cries in the shower or my car or watching tv and whatnot.  It's just not a problem for others like this.  It also makes my excuse for the puffy redness, "It's just allergies," believable- because no one actually sees me crying.  DaVinci has finally picked up that I'm not sad, just depressed.  If I'm crying, it's not necessarily because anything is wrong.  My bud in Cleveland suffers from SAD, which is very similar.  Her boyfriend is new to this, so she's dealing with explaining the I'm not sad, just depressed thing, too.

I appreciate having a handle on this depression right now.  I know that sounds weird.  I guess it's because this one hasn't made me hit bottom yet.  I'm actually clear-headed enough to acknowledge what's going on.  Even better, I'm not letting it got to me personally. Even when my brain tried to get me to go back to that place where I question my marriage, I didn't let it.  (As an aside, the Pretender got engaged.)  I thought about calling EverSmile up and just chatting, but I know why I'd be doing it.  Now I can say I'm stronger than my depression.  Well, maybe.  It's still early.  I still feel really alone.  DaVinci still helps and tries to understand.  I just know now that it's out of my hands, and I just have to make it as easy as possible.

I don't feel like doing anything.  In fact, it's taken me three days to get this far in this post.   I read a crappy trilogy which a girl at work recommended to me.  It's a kind of love story about human-like troll people (think Twilight, but a little different- main difference being that I never read Twilight).  When she didn't chose the one guy, and instead chose another (Team troll!)  I bawled like a baby.  Reading is usually a good escape for me, but I end up reading books where women run away with guys they love and they live happily ever after.  That's never good.  I don't want to question my marriage.  I love my Hub.  He's my favorite, and just because I'm fucked up for a few weeks doesn't mean I have to ruin his life, or our life together, forever.  My next book in line to read is Madame Bovary, which isn't going to happen.  Books about people- especially women who have trouble with reality- who kill themselves are strictly off the list of readable materials.  Got any suggestions?

Reading is Fun-damentally Embarrassing

In my quest to function like a normal 20-something with no kids, I decided to make some friends.  People my age with no kids generally have fun things to do.  Fun things, that happen with friends.  Involve wine.  End up as fantastic black and white photographs on other peoples' facebook pages.  And make for great conversation:
"Yes, while jet-skiing in the Alps last year, I decided Buddhism was the way to go."
Right?

I joined a book club.
Not a BOOK CLUB, like my sister is in.  That's headed by a woman who get e-mailed a list of questions and book suggestions.  They pay to be a part of that club.  It's like a dollar for showing up, not finishing the book, or whatever.  It's not expensive or anything.  It pays for the "club membership" and snacks, I guess.  It's like a national organization of a book club, and that's okay.
But my cheap ass isn't paying to read a book.  That's what college was for.  So, I found a book club on craigslist.org.  Hey now, if I can go on a cruise with !!!!!!strangers from the internet!!!!!! I can certainly meet strangers at a bar and talk books.  It's practically college all over again in that respect.  This was two girls who said "Hey, we like books and would like to have a way to relive that aspect of college.  Let's meet at a restaurant or bar and discuss books."
I missed the first meeting.  On Friday-ish, an e-mail was sent out to say the first meeting was the following Sunday.  I don't check my e-mail.  It's filled with electronic bills and coupons for places at which I do not shop.  It's cool, though.  That was just a meet and greet and decide on a new book meeting anyway.  One of the girls e-mailed what the book would be, and I apologized for missing it and promised I wouldn't be such a geek the next time- in those exact words.  "Won't be such a geek next time."  The book turned out to be Kathryn Stockett's The Help.  It was a chick lit book about women's lib and civil rights.  It was okay.  It didn't move me or change anything about me.  In fact, it sort of wasted my time.  But it wasn't bad.  I'd recommend it to people I didn't take as serious readers. 
A month later, second meeting.  Same restaurant same/different people- I wouldn't know, I missed the first one, right?  I gave myself extra time to get to the restaurant/bar it was at.  (Side note, it's a gastropub that gets fabulous reviews and DaVinci and his friends drool over the place.)  I didn't get lost, so I was there about ten minutes early.  The gastropub- 'cause that makes it sound fancy in the pants- was empty.  No, not entirely empty.  There was a bartender. 
"Hey, you mind if I sit here for a few minutes?  I'm meeting some people here, and I'm a little early."
"Sure" ...pause, staring... "Are you with the book club?"
"Yes!  You know them?  I haven't met them before."
"Oh, they're real nice.  The girls who organized it are in here quite a bit, and asked if they could have the meetings here." ...pause, staring... "Aren't you a bit early?"
"Yeah, I didn't want to get lost.  I live across the river, and gave myself extra time."
"I thought the meeting was at five."
Pause for my blank look.  I could swear the e-mail said four....  Hmmm.   Uh, um, well.... Call DaVinci.  Yep, because of the football game, they pushed it back an hour.  They notified me through e-mail.
I was an entire hour early.  Awesome.
 
The girls were fine.  We're not on the same page as far as approaches to literature, taste, or even class (they don't seem uppity or snobby, I'm just a little ghetto-fabulous).  But it's a book club.  With people who read.  Except me... who doesn't read e-mails.
I'll stick it out.  We're reading Jane Austen (vomit in my brain).  It's literary discussion with adults.  None of which have kids.  And maybe I'll finally understand feminism... maybe.  I promised myself six months of this.  If it doesn't work out at the end of six months, I will have stayed with it long enough to make it not about them or the books they read.  If it does work out, I've made some friends. 

It's Not Always Funny Because It's True

Whew, that bitchy last post is much funnier in my brain, mostly because my brain added sock puppets.

Today I'm going to be VERY personal, and kind of a downer.  I just need to talk myself through this.  This isn't a topic up for debate.  This is not a topic on which I will be judged by anyone.  I'm not religious.  For this matter, though, let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
Sometimes, fear takes over me.  Sometimes my fear is irrational, like being afraid of people accidentally stabbing me when offering to feed me a piece of food with their own fork in their own hand.  Sometimes it's rational, like being afraid of things hitting me in the face- probably the greatest cause of my anxiety.

However... I have one super-rational phobia (which is defined as:  a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it).  I have a rational phobia.  Go with it.
I am married, and have been married for two and a half years.  I'd never cheat on him, and he'd never cheat on me.  It's something you just know.
Before DaVinci, though, I was a bit of a whore.  I don't mean to say I'm ashamed of myself because I had pre-marital sex and god (maybe with the big "g") will never forgive me.  I mean, I used to have a lot of sex with a lot of people I didn't know that well.  I don't have a fancy excuse like nymphomania.  I mean, I guess I can link it to the bipolar thing.  But that doesn't really excuse anything.  If it was the sixties, sure you can excuse that- it was the sixties, man.  My aunt and uncle died when I was nine and ten, respectively.  They died of "complications due to AIDS."  He got it through a blood transfusion in the early eighties and passed it to her.  So, you'd think I'd know better.  And I do.  And sometimes I didn't care.  On more than one occasion, I had sex with more than just one person in a day.  I don't even know how to explain that.  DaVinci has never asked about my past in any specific detail.  Sure, I'll joke with my friends about my promiscuous past.  It was kind of like, Oh, 3xE is kinda the whore of our group.  And that's fine as long as it stayed a joke.  It's not so funny to me sometimes.
I've never been tested.
I'll say that again.  I've never been tested.
I am scared to death.
I have a friend who works with HIV/AIDS groups in Austin.  He's what you'd expect, a gay man with a psychology background working hard to keep people with AIDS from feeling alienated and hopeless and those without AIDS from contracting it.  He's the only one I can turn to, and yet I cannot turn to him.
There are several layers of fear to it.  I fear the judgment.  Being tested means you don't know.  And not knowing is like admitting that you've fucked up.  Whether is was one night with a stranger, or one night without protection, it was one moment without control and it could cost you your life.  One fuck up, and everything is over.  At least if you don't get tested, you can keep that shame to yourself.  No one has to know I was a whore.  I know it, and I've dealt with it, and I try to avoid letting it affect me. 
Then there's the not knowing part.  Not only am I unsure of the status- but there's a chance it might be really bad.  And not just for me.  I might have killed my husband.  I don't even know what the statistics are, or the odds of me having contracted it.  But we're together, and we have sex.  And because of me, he might be dying.  I might be dying.  And if that is the case, that changes everything.  We couldn't have kids.  We'd have to tell our families.  It'd be all my fault, because it's my past that's so questionable.  Everything would be destroyed because of my stupidity and lack of control.  My marriage would be over.  My family would not get it, especially not after my aunt and uncle.  My future would be taken from me.  My husband would leave me, and we'd probably die alone.
If and when we decide to have children, I would want to be tested beforehand.  Just to prevent that sort of complication.  But in the meantime, I can't bring myself to be tested.  While not knowing is tortuous, I can't imagine being positive for HIV and confronting my husband is any better.
My past is my only real reason for being afraid.  I'm kind of an idiot when it comes to HIV/AIDS.  I don't know what the symptoms would be.  I mean, it kills your immune system, so you die from something else, and not AIDS itself.  And I know people usually exhibit flu-like symptoms with HIV.  I get the flu about every 15 months.  I got a flu shot last year, hopefully that will help me avoid its terror this year.  Or I could get tested.  I just cannot bring myself to do it.  And that guilt is terrible:  The guilt of admitting to myself that I'd rather not know.  Admitting to myself that if I'm going to die, and my husband is going to die, isn't it better that we not know it?  If it was going to happen, then it already has.  And if that's the situation, there's not a lot I can do about it from here and now, right?
This is my guilt and my fear.  This is what makes me a bad person.

Good Morning America has a Series Called "Living the Dream"

     A month later, maybe more, and so here I am.  I'm still not on meds; and I haven't been back to see the doctor nor the social worker.  I am working at a new dealership.  It's really quite terrible.  The store I'm at now does everything in a way that's a little skewed.  I am having a lot of trouble adjusting here.  

     Yesterday was my second anniversary, and everything was going well.  I had a decent day at work, as good as it could have been.  DaVinci and I saw a movie, then went to my mom's house.  There we had cheesecake and champagne to celebrate.  So there I am, fat, drinking and being pressured to "have another slice.  It's so good.  Anniversary cheesecake doesn't have any calories."  NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!  What part of I FEEL FAT AND UGLY do you not understand?  Not to mention, I'm tired, because it's 11 at night and I have to be at work at 7 in the morning, and I get a little pissy. 
     Then my allergies kick in, like every evening.  They have been progressively getting worse as the days pass.  It might be the new spring season; it might be the lack of cleaning and all the dogs around.  Even my legs were itching, but I think that was a flea stuck in my sock, because I had several places that were itching all on one foot.  So I complain to DaVinci that my legs itch and my eyes are drying out.  He tells me that I should wear my glasses.  He then proceeds to imply that I'm making up the itchy legs, because he feels nothing.  I say I think it's a flea, and he says maybe my shoes are too tight.  So, wearing my shoes all day, and not having to re-tie them suddenly makes them tighter and causes my right foot to itch in three specific places?  Huh, the miracles of the human body, right?  So I say again, that's it's a flea and think it was stuck in my shoe or something.  And again, I must be making it up.
     Due to the whole "I'm not crazy, I'm just tired, itchy, and my allergies are making it difficult for me to function" thing, I was not getting any support from DaVinci.  All I wanted was a chance to vent.  And everything I said or felt, according to him, was either wrong or my fault.  I don't care about who's at fault.  I don't care if it's my shoes too tight or a flea.  I don't care that my eyes were drying out, and that I should know better by now and bring my glasses with me everywhere.  I just wanted him to say, "Gee, I'm sorry you feel that way."  I wasn't even looking for "Is there anything I can do to help?"  I just wanted to say how I felt, not asking for help or answers or a solution.  And I certainly didn't want to hear that it's my fault. 
     So, there I was, uncomfortable and then made to feel even worse.  And then I did what every girl wants to do for her second anniversary, I cried myself to sleep, alone in my bed.

SWF Searching M/F BFF, literacy a MUST, no references required

I sent this in to Aunt Becky:
I have to be friends with women I wouldn't normally be friends with- their husbands are my husbands' buds, and we all get together every weekend.  I've tried making my own friends, but it's hard when you don't really have a hobby and suffer with a mood disorder.  I've also tried being genuine friends with these women, and it's not terrible, just not *me.* 
So, I'm looking to go on this Aunt Becky's Family Reunion Cruise, and I don't want to let them know about it.  Nothing personal, I just don't want to be on a boat with them.  We tried an "all girls" vacay and it failed miserably and ended in drama.  I'd rather go on my own and make my own friends, anyway.  Does this make me a bad person?  And how do I explain that I'm going on a cruise (without the Hub nonetheless) and didn't mention it to nor invite them?

Ahem.
Yes, the jobless wives club tried to plan a vacation.  Yes, it failed so badly that it led to bickering, gossip, and no days off.  It was a lame soap opera.  Here's how it went- and I'll paraphrase as much as possible.

Tiffany and Tessa and Leslie are running their mouths while their husbands watched a baseball game:
This is hot and boring and not entertaining to women.  We should do something else.
We should.  We should take a girls only vacation.  No husbands, no kids.
We should.  We should go on a cruise.  It's super-cheap, and we live right by a port where a major cruise line leaves from.

Then Tessa and Leslie decided to plan this trip:
I don't like boats, so we shouldn't go on a cruise.  We should get a hotel on the beach and do that instead.  Except I don't like the beach either, so we have to stay at this resort in Alabama that has a pool and a lazy river.  Also, we should plan it now, in May, so we can get a good rate for September.  And sleep four to a room, two to a bed, so it's cheaper.
Great!
*send out a text message*  We're going to Alabama for a girls only trip in September.  In or out?

I talk to Tiffany, who's out because it's the weekend of her kid's birthday:
I don't want to pay money to go to Alabama and sit by a pool.  I can do that here for free.
I wanted to go on a cruise.  I was left out of the plans.  And I don't want to spend my vacation with stupid Leslie or pregnant Heather.
DaVinci says the trip will cause me more stress than it's worth.  He says no. I cannot go.

I tell Tessa I cannot go:
DaVinci says I cannot go.
Why not?
He says we can't afford it.
Why not?
We're poor.
It's not that expensive, and we're all sharing a room.
I don't want to share a room with Leslie.  And Heather will be big and pregnant by then.  And no one will want to go to the beach with me, because Tiffany's out.  I'm not going.

Tessa told Heather the bad news:
3xE isn't going because she hates Leslie!
What a bitch!

I left out some stuff, sure, but that's the gist.  And then it spread to facebook, and the husbands had to get involved because it was affecting their hang-out time.  It was a shitty situation. 
I didn't want to pay money so that Tessa could sit by a pool- she has her own pool. 
No, I didn't want to go to Alabama to not sit by the beach.  Tiffany's the only one who likes the beach who's not me. 
Heather will be seven months pregnant by then, and you know how super-jolly pregnant women get in the summer when they're hot, outside, and all their friends are not pregnant and drinking.
No, I don't like Leslie.  She's that girl who walks in on people while changing, more than once, on separate occasions.... You know?  I've got no problem with lesbians.  I just don't want loud, annoying, stupid women sneaking a peak at my goods.  She has this really annoying way of ruining a lot of our fun.  Tessa hosted a "fun party" and at least twice Leslie said out loud, "You're not supposed to have anything that BIG in you.  Those aren't safe."  This was before the lecture at how important it is to make sure you clean it well before you hide it because "you don't want to know what kind of germs you can get up in there."  Gag!  Also, hide the vibrator?  Mine is included during sex thank-you-very-much.
It literally blew up and turned ugly.  And Tiffany and I bore the burden of being the bad guys.  And the husbands said we're not allowed to even talk about it anymore.  It irritates them.  Things are better now, but it got too ugly too fast for friends.

So, Aunt Becky is having a fun vacation cruise in March 2011.  DaVinci said I can go, and I'm saving.  But I don't want to put it up on my facebook because I don't want the Jobless Wives Club to know about it.  They can know.  I just don't want to go with them.  I want to make my own friends.  I want to be friends with people I'm friends with because we're friends and not forced to be friendly.  I want to drink a little and relax and over-use the song lyric "I'm on a boat!"  I want to lose my flip-flops and have to buy a blingin' new pair.  I want to bunk with a stranger and giggle because it's just like summer camp! 

It Was Titled "Once More With Feeling!"

     So, shut up, I know it's been a while.  Turns out the trip to Austin had me so screwy that I ended up not doing so hot.  I gained back all the weight I had lost (and yes, 10 pounds is a lot to me) and haven't been to the spark site since.  This is sad, because I really liked spark.  But I'm like some sort of addiction freak, and it's all or nothing to me.  I either do something every day or whatever (regularly) or I don't do it at all.  Like smoking.  I smoked pretty regularly, especially at the body shop.  And when I stopped, I stopped.  There wasn't a struggle or gum or hypnotist.  I just wasn't a smoker anymore.  And I used spark all day.  All day.  Every meal, everything I read, related to spark, tracked in spark.  And now, it's just not done anymore.  I've always been like that.  I get like that with games, shows, even friends.  Like, I get super-clingy and I know it's bad.  And when I started drinking, I drank a lot, and often.  And so now I'm off spark.  I'd like to be able to introduce myself back into it.  My account is still there, I think.  And I was losing weight.  And I still have a gym membership.  I caught a cold recently and had to quit going.  But now I'm all better.  Well, betterish.  And so, back to the gym I head. 
     Also, things at work are changing, and we all know how I just loooooove change.  My mom's been moved to another dealership.  So, even though she didn't understand what was always going on with me, she was still the only person with any pull around here who had a clue.  No one else knows.  No one else even knew I had been diagnosed or anything.  And now, I'm on my own about it.  So it'll be like old times.... too many excuses.  She got moved and another guy took her place.  And he keeps changing things.  Like, I have a great big mirror behind my desk, and I like to draw things or write on it, like "Happy Mardi Gras" or a flag for Memorial and Veterans' Days.  Except we're not allowed to write on it anymore.  And we had a big glass in front of my desk with like an 8" opening at the bottom to do transactions through, for protection, like banks used to have.  But they took that out, so we can seem more approachable to customers.  Well, customers aren't supposed to approach me.  They are supposed to give me money in exchange for their car keys and leave.  Even when I do know the answers to their questions, I'm not allowed to answer them.  So, no, I don't want to be approached by them; because usually, it's in an infuriating combination of anger and ignorance.  And now, anyone can reach over and into my cash drawer and take money, because it's not like the drawer locks or anything.  And the security camera (and button that sounds an alarm and summons police) that helps keep bank tellers safe?  We don't have that.  The cameras don't work here... so take THAT safety!
     I'm being moved to another dealership soon.  Not the one my mom works at, but yet another one.  A different and kind of better one.  It's busier, and cleaner.  My mom told me... not even my boss(es).  Also, the girl I work with told me (in secret) because we're not all supposed to talk about things here.  I think they are firing the other cashier and moving me there and hiring someone else here.  The girl I work with knows because until they fill my spot, she has to do my job.  But I haven't heard when it will be official.  Today's the end of the pay period, so maybe they'll call me on my way in and say "Go over there instead,"  because that's the kind of people I work for.  Everything's a secret... but no one can keep a secret, so make what you can of that. 
     But at the new place, I won't be in a very "private" place.  Like, here, I have a sort of cubicle with a window.  So I can do things, like goof off online and blog anonymously.  Over there it's a lot of people... and all my superiors work there, too (as opposed to my superiors here, who are the same people but who work, well, over there and not here.  I'm not sure what I'll do; since I'll be busier, maybe I won't need to worry about what I'll do when I'm bored.  Maybe I'll read really big books to impress them... because people are idiots.  That's always been my favorite way to say, "please, just leave me alone" and "why, yes, I am pretty intelligent" at the same time.  It sounds trite, but one of the owners has like 5 family members throughout our dealerships (one is our receptionist) who only work here because they are his relatives, and not because they can, you know, do the job.  And since I am my mother's daughter and work here, they think that I'm simple, too. 
     But really, I think I work here because of my mood disorder.  I don't think I can handle a real job.  And I can't afford to work part-time.  Although, DaVinci said I could, but I know we can't really afford it.  I've applied to other places, like PetSmart and PetCo, and am thinking about Home Depot/Lowes.  Autozone was really good to me.  I worked full time there, and I quit because I worked for an idiot towards the end.  But to work part-time in a situation like that wasn't all bad.  I was in school at the time, and that kinda sucked.  But if I could afford to not work, and just had a simple part-time job, I think that would be okay.  I applied to a jewelry store before, to get a skill and not a ton of stress.  That would be awesome.  Not that jewelry is my thing, but I'm good with small detail work with my hands.... not creative or artsy, but I can do links and undo knots and such.  I'd rather work weekends and have weekdays off.  I'd rather not do retail... but some sort of other work.  I like a bit of variety in my job.  I was happy doing manual labor at Target, merchandising at PepBoys, and manager/office stuff at Autozone like some merchandising and sales and some back office work like checking the safe and approving payroll, etc.  So, I don't know what I like to do.  Here, I like playing on the internet and reading.  The work sucks, because I get all the questions, and I'm not allowed to answer any of them.  And I do things that's not my job.  Like work as receptionist.  And I don't need to file everyday, because I can do a week's worth of it in about two hours... which, you know, sometimes it's nice to have two hours of work... because I have nothing else to do!
     So, with all these things changing, and me being recently flung into a low, I decided to seek help once again.  In about two months my work will be offering insurance again.  Having insurance is nice, because you can see doctors and get prescriptions.  But then the insurance is so expensive, you can't afford the doctor or the medicine.  So I cancelled my insurance a few months ago.  I think I will sign up again.  DaVinci's work offers him something now, so maybe it will be better this time around when I can cover just myself.  But I still can't afford therapy... or time to see a therapist.  Damn jobs... with all their work and effort and unhappiness.  So, I contacted some local human services people to see what my options are.  DaVinci and I aren't quite yet middle-class, but we're above poverty.  I am offered insurance, but can't afford what insurance helps me with because I am paying insurance... etc.  So, I found out that the community offers help with a sliding scale pay rate, which is like when I saw the lady at the Catholic School.  She was a grad student, and worked as a counselor like my Pat, and we paid her what we could "afford" based on income.  It's not a perfect system, I assume.  I go on Monday.  I'll see a man named Bob, who is a social worker.  He said that they offer counseling and sometimes meds.  But he said that, from what he could tell by by what I told him on the phone, it seems more like I suffer depression.  Well... sure, maybe.  Look, I'm not even always sure I'm crazy.  But he'll contact the people I saw at school and get a history on me, and talk to me, and see what they can do.  So... yay!  Help!... not like "Help!" but like, "Yay, help!"  Whatever.
     So, maybe I'll be better.  Maybe he'll say I just need to control myself better.  I've already been told lots of things.  And how do I talk about it?  I mean, can I say things like, I hurt myself, but not often?  And do I say I suffer from a series of ups and downs, and sometimes can't tell one from the other?  Do I say I've switched to a sort of organic diet to prevent any extra hormonal influence in my already strained body?  I'm more nervous I'll come off as someone trying to cheat the system and get some attention and meds, because when I try to talk about it from a clear-minded and stable position, I come off as a person who has read the symptoms from a textbook.  And, while I have complained before that not all of us crazy people are the same... I sometimes think that I'm pretty clearly within the definition of what bipolar disorder is.  Which is weird when compared to my normal times, when I don't think anything is wrong with me, and that everyone else is just stupid.  But I don't want to sound like one of those people who has read the side effects section of a medicine bottle and thinks "oh my god, I soooo have those symptoms."  You know?  I know- deep in my insane, desperate, roller coaster- riding, addict of a soul of mine- something is off with me.  Emotionally, mentally, maybe even physically, something about me is a little off... and it's not my love of crappy action movies and dark comedies.  I find that a charming aspect of my personality. 
     Still, how honest do I get?  I mean... how can I be honest without sounding crazy?  Because I know that I want to come off as crazy as I feel, without being as crazy as I feel.  Talking about the depression makes me depressed.  And it's hard to convey just how sometimes mania feels like a fever, or an infection.  You can feel it coming on and getting worse, and feel it when it's gone.  But to clearly talk about it makes me feel less like a crazy person and more of an expert on crazy people.  Like I'm not the person who has it, but sometimes, she takes over my body, and I can define and explain every move and emotion, and to do that makes me feel separate from her... and I know it's me... but it's not who I am.  No, I'm not suicidal, but I have been.  No, I'm not manic, but I have been.  And I know that I need the meds, but I don't want them.  And I don't want to be all "Gimme the drugs, man!"  It's like eye drops.  My eyes will still close and refuse the drops access, and yet, I know it's necessary, and only I can help me.  I guess this is the paradox I face once again... of being too sane to be this crazy... or too crazy to be this sane.  I'm not sure what I am anymore.  Maybe I'm just damaged, but not necessarily broken.